


Ten Thousand Times of Living

by ivywatcher



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, so many drabbles, this is more fun than it looks I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivywatcher/pseuds/ivywatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 100 drabbles that traces their lives from start to end, in no particular order of importance. What are the moments that make up a life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Thousand Times of Living

**Author's Note:**

> All of the prompt words here come from "The 100 words that every high school graduate should know". I highly recommend pulling up a dictionary site to reference while you read; who says fanfiction can't be educational?
> 
> As always, your reading time is greatly appreciated. This is a weird way to tell a story; feel free to drop me a line and tell me how you think it worked at the end. Happy reading!

  
**I**   


**Exposition**

 

 _...their beginnings in the world at large._

 

 

  
 **Abjure** (Mycroft, Sherlock)  


The very first day of Sherlock's life (the two thousand, seven hundred and thirty-seventh day of his), Mycroft held his brother close, gentle. He felt the tiny weight against his chest and promised, “I'll take care of you,” when no one was there to hear but the two of them. He suspects now that he is the only person heartbroken by his failure to keep that first and only oath. It seemed much simpler—and perhaps more true—in the silent night of the nursery. In these grown-up days, he wonders whether the making or the breaking was the worse offense.

 

 **Taxonomy** (John, Harry, Sherlock, Mycroft)

They used to play out on the corner, on afternoons when they were avoiding home. Harry would point to a passing stranger, John would come up with a story for them. Their standbys: the secret agent, the superhero, the cheating husband. The world carefully concentrated into characters and plotlines. John still catches himself doing it, some days.

Mycroft and Sherlock spent most of their afternoons in the park, books stacked between them. Mycroft would point, Sherlock would deduce, and they'd argue happily over observations, tendencies, predictions. They broke the world into pieces, neatly boxed and understood. Pity it couldn't last.

 

 **Vacuous** (Moriarty)

The world stretches out before him, black and white and brown like the chess board. People are disgusting, loud, unbearable, and they're _liars._

It's so, so easy to push them one way, direct them in another, just like pieces on the board. They have no idea, and that makes it _fun._ Sometimes even a little challenging.

When he realizes people die, it's _fascinating._ Just a shell left, a bag of meat.

By the time he's seven, Jim gets used to people calling him strange.He learns to smile.

They're wrong. He's the only one who sees that nothing actually  _ exists _ .   
  


**Acumen** (Sherlock, Mummy)

The teacher shifts nervously under Mummy's keen stare. Sherlock can't blame him. He gazes around the familiar classroom with a bored eye, only half paying attention to the adults' conversation.

“He's very...well, he's very _bright,_ obviously,” Mr. Hashum is saying in a high voice.

 _Nerves,_ Sherlock's brain supplies.  _He hasn't slept well._

“Yes,” Mummy agrees with a smile in Sherlock's direction.

There is a _but_ attached to the teacher's compliment: _He's disruptive, he doesn't play along, the other children don't like him._ Never to be voiced, now. Mummy knows anyway, but she _understands,_ keeps smiling. Sherlock slumps, relieved.

 

 **Paradigm** (John)

When he was six, John wanted to be just like Harry. That lasted for about four months, which was pretty impressive, in retrospect. When he was eight, he wanted to be just like his dad. That lasted for longer than it should have, before he realized why his mum looked so tired and sad.

At fifteen, he wanted to be like Jack Simmons, who had every girl in lower sixth at his beck and call. When he caught Jack chasing Niri Barot down the back alley, he won his first fist fight. After that, he was plenty happy being himself.

 

 **Oxidize** (Lestrade)

He finds it in a corner of the parts shed, pushed behind a pile of mismatched fenders he's trying to sort out. It's clearly ancient, totally covered in brown rust. On closer inspection, the regulator's eaten through. The oil feed lines are shot too, but he can probably fix that. He stands there for a second with his hand on the bars, imagines sitting astride it and whipping down the road, catching eyes.

He works all summer for that bike, stays after, fixes her up and makes her run. Mr. Hendricks thinks he's insane. Lestrade's pretty sure he's in love.

 

 **Circumlocution** (John)

“So, I, uh—I was wondering--” her head turned, big blue eyes widened in surprise, and John felt sweat break out on his palms.

Oh, bugger. His hands were shaking. This had been a terrible idea. He _never_ should've--

“You were wondering...” she prompted.

Well. Too late now. “I was wondering if you'd think about...were you planning on going to the dance on Friday? Because...so was I. And if you were going maybe we could...you know...ah, what I meant was that--”

“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “Alright.”

“Oh.” John blinked. “Brilliant.”

 

 **Gamete** (Sally)

After she's done, Sally wedges her back against the flimsy door and sinks down to the tile, braced against the toilet. The air's hot and damp; her hair plasters on her neck. She ignores it, hands clutched around the little white stick, stark against her skin.

 _Two blue lines._ Two blue lines and she'll be the girl who drops out, who stays home with the baby, off the map. She'll live here with Dad forever and what would she _name_ it and she'll never--

One pink line. Even as she sobs with relief, something near her heart breaks a little.  
  


 **Auspicious** (Lestrade, Mycroft, John)

On his very first day of work, Lestrade got his badge and a pair of cuffs. They were shiny, official, untarnished. The weight of them on his belt made him smile, not knowing they'd make him old.

On Mycroft's first day of the job that would subsume his life, he bought himself an umbrella. The moment needed a sense of _occasion,_ and he appreciated the symbolism.

On the first day of basic, they handed John a gun. The moment he felt its weight on his shoulder, he realized it was a more promising start than his stethoscope had ever been.

 

 **Jejune** (Sherlock)

Oxford is _dull,_ full of the same insipid, ignorant stupidity as the rest of the world. Sherlock finds himself disappointed; he'd hoped that there would be a challenge here, some kind of higher level that would ignite his interest. Instead there are disgusting, vapid frat boys and unimaginative, ancient professors, and all of them are dull and boring and _wrong._

There seems no point in going to class or doing the work when it's all so terribly  _predictable_ . People fear his intelligence, his deductions. He lets them.

Fortunately the cocaine proves fairly stimulating, and all too easy to come by.

 

 **Kowtow** (Mycroft, Anthea)

At this point in his career, Mycroft Holmes was used to men and women, newspaper salesmen and world rulers alike, glancing away to avoid his gaze and ducking their heads as he walked past. It was hardly surprising, given his personal and positional authority. It was amusing, even a little satisfying.

Still, it made finding good help something of a difficulty. He needed an assistant, not a sycophant. So when he bumped into her at an MI-6 function and she looked up from her cellphone and _held his gaze_ , he smiled and said, “Hello. Would you like a job?”

 

 **Photosynthesis** (John, Harry)

He and Harry had never seen eye-to-eye, really, not even when they were kids. But their parents did most of the fighting for them, so by the time John was sixteen and Harry was nineteen, they'd come to some mutual understandings. In the summer, when both of them were home from work (John) and dates (Harry), they'd climb out the window in John's room and sunbathe on the roof. It wasn't much; just a few blankets, sleepy heat, lemonade, some burns. Stepping off the plane in Afghanistan, the sun reminded him of Harry. She hadn't come to see him off.

 

 **Nonsectarian** (Lestrade, Anderson)

On his second day as DI, Lestrade got the official email about holiday greeting coworker awareness. It was three paragraphs long, and included most of the buzzwords from the mind-numbing sensitivity seminar they'd been forced to attend last weekend.

Anderson found him slumped over his desk with his head in his hands. Lestrade looked up, knowing the lines of bureaucracy were already on his face.

“Nondenominational holiday greetings to you and your immediate family,” Lestrade offered, deadpan.

Anderson's eyebrows rose in amusement. “Merry bloody Christmas,” he returned with a grin.

Lestrade couldn't believe his luck, getting this team.

 

 **Tectonic** (Mrs. Hudson)

She moves back to England, after it all. It seems right, all things considered. Besides, she doesn't have much place else to go these days, does she.

She'll always miss Florida. She misses the sun, the beaches, the lovely dears in her bridge club. Marg offered up her spare room, but...well. It all reminds her too much of him, and he's still fresh in the ground. It's time to move on. The earth feels like it's moving underneath her feet.

So she goes home, back to London. Nothing's changed, except she's in different pieces than the ones she left with.

 

 **Bellicose** (Sherlock, Scotland Yard)

“Oh, God, not _again.”_

Sherlock straightens his spine and ducks under the tape. He'd hoped to avoid this today. He's tired. Donovan and Anderson descend like vultures, circling. They keep their distance, at least.

“He's let you back in already?” Donovan sighs, mouth pinched. “Wouldn't be so sure you're not doped up.”

“Wouldn't be sure he hasn't left a body in an alley somewhere,” Anderson oozes.

It's  _ pathetic.  _ A retort builds on his tongue, slower than usual, but Lestrade appears. “You have work to do.”  


For once, Sherlock takes the out, grin smug and sharp.

 

 **Totalitarian** (Mycroft, Lestrade)

Sherringford Holmes had been...well. _Authoritative_ was generous. Demanding. Exacting. _Cruel_. As the firstborn, Mycroft learned to outwardly obey, to live up to his father's seemingly impossible standards. Sherlock doesn't realize how often Mycroft stepped in, protected him from that. They absolutely never discuss it.

Lestrade is the oldest of five. His father had never been in the picture. Lestrade helped with bills, raised his siblings, grew up too fast. He came to expect everything from himself because no one else would hold him to it. His family is quite touchingly thankful.

Reading Lestrade's file, Mycroft sees more similarities than differences.

 

 **Soliloquy** (Sherlock, Homeless Girl)  
She heard his voice echoing pretty on the stones, so she turned into the alley. There: nattering on at thin air, pacing, hands in his hair. “No, he's gone, where would...”

She hadn't seen him around, hadn't heard about him. Seemed like their type, though, so she interrupted. “Need somethin', mister?”

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. His eyes cut through her, but she held the gaze. Knew what it was like to talk at walls.

His mouth widened into a smile, mad glint in his eyes. “Yes. I do. You hear things, I imagine.”

 

 **Hubris** (John)

The heat presses in like a living thing, dry and baking. The sand is blinding white, and it gets into absolutely everything, constantly irritating. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at, and at night it's coated in stars. Standing in the middle of it, even with his unit around him, makes him feel small and quiet.

They also get shot at on a daily basis. The taste of grit, the solid weight of the gun, the feel of blood on his hands. This life should be hell.

John has to pretend very hard not to enjoy it.

 

 **Sanguine** (Mike, Sherlock)

Oh, Sherlock was a nice enough bloke, really, once you got past the rest of it. Mike had seen enough child prodigies in his day to know the signs. Sherlock was edgy, tried to drive people away, used those mad deductions of his like a shield. Mike didn't mind that, particularly. He made sympathetic noises while Sherlock ranted. Easy enough to ignore the insults, even the ones he really meant. They'd met outside a chem seminar, and despite Sherlock's nattering on about being just fine on his own, they kept meeting for coffee. Mike just smiled and let him talk.

 

 **Quasar** (Lestrade, Mycroft)

Lestrade's out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, with just his tent and his telescope, but Mycroft Holmes manages to find him anyway. He stands beside Lestrade, shivering. “Take a look,” Lestrade says, offering him the eyepiece. “It's a quasar. It emits huge amounts of energy, could turn into a black hole at the drop of a hat. Far away, too. Eons.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mycroft murmurs. Lestrade recognizes that strained, exhausted tone. Sherlock's still detoxing, then.

“Have a drink,” he says. Mycroft watches him, uncertain, and then nods his thanks and settles into Lestrade's only chair.

 

**Abrogate** (Sherlock)  


He puts an end to the drugs the April before John. To say _end_ is a misnomer, of course. The chemicals are gone from his flat and his veins, but he feels the absence as surely as he felt their presence. He still reaches for them when he is exhausted or off-guard. He used to think of Mycroft's dark frown or the sound of Lestrade's disappointed sigh. He doesn't need them any more to still himself and stifle the longing for quick-silver highs. His hands no longer shake. He has them (himself) beaten and contained. 

Pity. He misses the quiet.

 

**Kinetic** (John)  


 _In his dreams, he walks with ease, gun to his shoulder, pace smooth._

He wakes up to a leg that won't hold his weight and a hand that can't hold a fork steady, let alone a gun.

 _He remembers the heat, the breath-stealing dryness, the heart-pounding adrenaline of remaining silent, waiting for the moment--_

London is damp and cold, and he loves it, even if he can't breathe in the humidity. He stays quiet, waiting for...something.

 _His dreams are full of movement—the world turning on the buzz of bullets._

John never suspected running into war would leave him standing still.

 

 **Chromosome** (Mrs. Hudson)

She and the Mister never had children, and she didn't regret it, really. He was never much of the fathering type, and she'd been so terribly   
_young._ Then he'd gone and proved himself a monster, and she'd been left alone, free, and terribly old. 

But there was Sherlock. Such a brilliant thing, and so very lonely. Lost. She let him in and cut the rate, and even filled the fridge occasionally. Then that sweet John Watson came along. John smiled at her, held the door, checked on her soothers. Lovely boys, both of them, and more than enough for her.

 

 **Fiduciary** (Mycroft, Lestrade, John, Sherlock)

Mycroft is the reason Sherlock survived to the age of twenty. He carried him as a baby, directed his footsteps as a toddler, taught him to read, taught him to silence the overwhelming _noise_ of facts flying through his head at the speed of light. It was his familial duty.

Lestrade took on the burden of getting Sherlock sober. It was messy and often mean. Lestrade gave him the Work, knowing its importance. Someone had to do it.

John Watson is willingly responsible for the rest: for Sherlock becoming _good_ as well as great. It's what friends do, after all.

 

 **Equinox** (John, Sherlock)

They never talk about it, actually. John and Sherlock come from entirely different backgrounds, families, social situations, life experiences. The Holmes family was (is?) obviously rich; John's folks barely scrambled by. Sherlock went to uni, probably never finished. John went to med school, and then to war. Sherlock's older brother runs the world, while John's older sister just avoids it.

Sherlock can probably read all the history in the lines of John's face, and John could probably do some research and figure out how Sherlock lived, before. They don't.

They slot together effortlessly. That seems plenty to get on with.

 

 

 

 

**II**  


 **Rising Action**

 

 _...the most familiar of their days._

 

 

 **Nomenclature** (Sherlock, All)

Sherlock's life as it currently stood was not at all the existence he had predicted for himself. To begin with, it contained _people._ Individuals with roles. People like Anderson, whom Sherlock would much prefer cease to exist altogether. People like Molly: tiresome and small, but potentially capable. People like Lestrade, who simply refused to leave and had since become a steady fixture of his days.

Mycroft didn't count.

People like John. John, who was flatmate and coworker and  _ friend,  _ and none of those entirely. Sherlock's neatly boxed world order failed him. It was disconcerting, even alarming. New categorizations were necessary.

 

 **Antebellum** (Lestrade, John)

“You know, before the war, I was prob'ly the most...boring person. Ever.”

John's had a few pints too many, but Lestrade's never heard him talk this much before, so he prompts, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I just...nothing ever happened. I didn't...” he makes a vague gesture. “Thank God I joined up.” He snorts into his drink, and Lestrade finally confiscates it.

He's pretty sure John's wrong. Any man who can put up with Sherlock Holmes, run after him and keep him steady... “Come on,” he says, hand on John's good shoulder. “Let's get you home, yeah?”

 

 **Epiphany** (Sherlock)

He stares at the body, eyes narrowed. Businessman, forty-five, Welsh. On holiday after his recent divorce. No attachments here, no certain plans. Wrong place, wrong time, most likely. Left hand outstretched, grasping in its rigor mortis. Clasping something? Sherlock bends down to look, notes the indentations on the thumb. Cellphone, then. Removed by the killers. But why--

Cutting through this park is the quickest route to--but he's not a local. How could--

“ _Oh!_ ” He stands, the details snapping together. “Oh, of course. Stupid, stupid.” 

“Sherlock?”

“The gardener, of course. Come along, John.” And they're off.

 

  
 **Abstemious** (John, Sherlock)  


John didn't consider himself an indulgent person. He liked a beer and greasy chips—what bloke didn't, really?--but even in the middle of Afghanistan he'd never managed to distract himself with sensation. He'd considered himself  _balanced,_ maybe a little on the spartan side. 

But then he moved in with Sherlock, who was a whole other level of minimal. Sherlock fasted for days at a time and shirked sleep entirely. He acted like he was trying to cut away the world, leaving him transcendent and miserable. It taught John to appreciate his chips more than living in the desert ever did.

 

 **Diffident** (Sally, Lestrade)

It drives her 'round the bend, how bloody _passive_ Lestrade is when Sherlock goes off on him for the tenth time that day. The Freak calls him stupid and idiotic and dull. Lestrade just stands there and takes it, like the words bounce right off him, harmless. They hit Sally instead, because she knows better. She wants to say, _Don't you see how hard he works? You think making DI is easy? You think being so good that he can protect_ you _is useless?_ She won't say it though; Lestrade wouldn't want it. Doesn't mean she has to like it.

 

 **Incognito** (Anthea)

She enjoyed the name game John Watson always played with her ( _Anthea,_ really?) only because he had no idea, none at all, what her existence actually entailed. She shed personalities and expressions, changed them out with more ease than she abandoned shoes or skirts. There was safety in having no permanent labels attached, no identity to be remembered by.

Mycroft had pinned her down with knowing, solidified her into being long enough to put a blackberry in her hands and call her “dear”. She kept the same face now, but the smile and the name shifted at her discretion.

 

 **Chicanery** (John, Harry, Sherlock)

The thing is, for all of Sherlock's genius and careful manipulation, he has _nothing_ on John's sister. He doesn't realize, of course, and John intends to keep it that way. John sees the way Sherlock rants and raves until people give in, uses slight-of-hand and cutting words to distract people from his antisocial tendencies and his starvation tactics. But John remembers Harry's winning smile, the way she'd start an argument to keep him from asking about the half-empty bottle of Jack. He will not let Sherlock get away with it so easily. He's already made that mistake once. Never again.

 

 **Plagiarize** (Mycroft, Lestrade)

Mycroft gave a long sigh and sat back in his seat. The car made another turn around the block. “I don't look forward to writing this up,” he admitted.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose in surprise. “ _You_ have to write things up?”

“We all owe paperwork to someone, Inspector.” He made a face and looked out the window. “Though justifying Dr. Watson's illegal firearm will take some...care.”

“You're telling me.” Lestrade considered, then offered his own file. “Why not use mine?”

“Really?”

“Have to rewrite it anyway. 'Least you can admit to the gun.”

 

 **Infrastructure** (Mrs. Hudson)

Oh, they _try,_ the poor dears, but they're both really quite hopeless at looking out for themselves. How they managed without a guiding hand all this time, she really has no idea. She supposes that John was a kept man for the military, but it's no wonder Sherlock is so skinny, the way he eats.

She keeps tea on hand, some of Sherlock's favorite biscuits, punch for John's lady friends. She draws the line at _cleaning_ , mind. But she's glad to make the place feel a bit more homey. Some things simply need doing, and as their landlady, she's willing.

 

 **Lugubrious** (Harry, Sherlock, John)

It took Harry half the day to work up the nerve to dial. This hadn't gone very well last time. When she finally did, she curled up on the windowseat and wished for scotch.

“Hello?” The voice wasn't John's. Deeper, smoother, like an audio book.

“ _Oh,_ ” she realized. “You must be Sherlock.”

“Harry, I presume.” He didn't sound pleased. He continued without waiting for a response. “You're calling to apologize to John. I suggest you try later. He's had...a difficult day.” He hung up.

When John called back three minutes later, Harry let it ring.

 

 **Xenophobe** (Sebastian, Sherlock)

Holmes had always been _queer._ Might as well've been from another planet, for how little he related to the rest of them. Sebastian had tolerated him because those little tricks he pulled could be useful,if you applied them right. But the boy was too different.He was hopeless at a party: cold, aloof, totally uninterested in interacting at all. Sebastian gave him up for a lost cause, a freak. 

Years later, watching them across his desk, Sebastian spared a moment of pity for this Watson. _Friend,_ indeed. He'd learn soon enough what Holmes was like, and run for the hills.

 

 **Orthography** (John, Sally, Anderson)

John scribbled furiously at his notepad, fingers already cramping around the pen. Sally's shadow cast across the page as she came to stand next to him. “What's up?”

“Blogging,” he said shortly. “While it's fresh. I'll type it up later.”

“Oh.” She leaned over. “Think that's _e-i,_ not _i-e._ ”

“Where?”

“ 'Received.'”

“Is it?”

“Think so. Hey!”

Anderson joined them. “Yeah?”

“ 'Received' has the e before the i, right?

“Sure. It's in that kids' rhyme. Blogging?”

“I was,” John laughed. “Better check the rest of this first.”

 

 **Lexicon** (Moriarty, Sherlock)

Sherlock Holmes sees the universe as an aggregate of data, a network of connections that can be parsed and understood and torn apart by the brilliant whirrings of his mind. He calls the world _dull_ and _stupid_ and _slow._ Jim watches, and he understands. He sees it all the same, recognizes Sherlock's lectures as cries for attention, for a _challenge._

They speak the same language. The world is not enough for them, and so they will have to find another level to play on. It sends a thrill down Jim's spine, makes him smile. This is going to be _fun_.

 

 **Laissez Faire** (Lestrade, Dimmock)

Dimmock entered Lestrade's office with a consult payform and a frown. Lestrade winced sympathetically.“It's no good, he won't take it.”

“But _why_?” Dimmock sat abruptly. He had the hallmarks of post-Sherlock concussion.

“Says it's not about the money. Always has.”

“You didn't insist?”

 _Mostly, it seemed easier than tracking the bills to a dealer later._ “Figured it was his business.”

“How's he live?” __

 _Probably easy when your brother runs the world._ “Never asked.”

Dimmock waved the paper. “What about this?”

“Hand it over,” Lestrade said kindly. He'd put it with the rest.

 

 **Mitosis** (Sherlock, Mycroft)

They settle into their opposing chairs, carefully measured air between them. Exactly enough space to hold the thousand words unspoken, the memories unreferenced. Mycroft drums his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock curls his around the neck of his violin. Their favorite props, meant to clearly distinguish them from the selves the other once knew.

They play up the differences, now: classified documents, drug withdrawal, passive-agressive conversation. Anything to make things difficult. It has proven easier by far than acknowledging the countless little ways they used to be (are very much still) the same. It never entirely works.

 

 **Parabola** (John, Sherlock, Scotland Yard)

Not for the first time, John was struck by the way everybody arranged themselves at a scene. It wasn't something he'd noticed at first, but he'd begun to get a sense of the geography.

They all navigated around Lestrade. Sherlock bobbed about, collecting data and snarking deductions, but he did it within reach of Lestrade, until he got impatient.

Donovan and Anderson muttered at Sherlock, but stayed near their DI, hovering at a safe distance within his eyeline. They put him in the middle, forming a loose horseshoe around him.

John grinned and joined Sherlock, just to complete the curve.

 

 **Evanescent** (Sarah, John, Sherlock)

She tried not to let it bother her. She really did. She admired John's loyalty (even if it seemed misplaced), respected his courage, understood a little of why he thought he _needed_ to be at Sherlock's beck and call every hour of every day. He was kind, funny, romantic. She tried to smile through it and kiss him with good will when a date got interrupted.

What really troubled her was how easily he left. He brought Sherlock on every date, ingrained into his conversation, but he apparently left all thoughts of Sarah at the door when he rushed out.

 

 **Hegemony** (Mycroft, John)

Sherlock took one look at Mycroft sitting in his chair, gave an annoyed huff, turned on his heel and left.

John remained standing in the kitchen, kettle in hand. He blinked, turned to Mycroft again. “Would you still like some tea?”

The offer surprised him into honesty. “Yes, thank you.”

John handed him a mug. Mycroft added milk and stirred. “You know,” he said at last, “for some reason I thought that once I occupied my...minor governmental position, Sherlock would fall in line somewhere.”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Rather.” Mycroft sighed and accepted the sugar bowl.

 

 **Churlish** (John, Sherlock)

“I don't believe you!” John's already yelling the second they step into the flat. “Did you delete every manners lesson your mother ever gave you?”

Sherlock actually crosses his arms,and he looks about two second away from throwing a temper tantrum. “Honestly, John, that woman was--”

“I don't care! You never say something like that to a woman who's just lost her--”

“Oh, you and your _useless_ social conventions!” Sherlock is officially pouting now.

John's mouth snaps shut. “Like dealing with a bloody _toddler,”_ he growls, and stomps up the stairs.

 

**Metamorphosis** (Molly, Moriarty)  


Molly bumped into Jim at a med tech conference, and it was like something out of a film. They went for coffee, and then for a walk, and then the whole weekend disappeared into one long, sweet first date. Jim was _nice._ He listened when she talked. He laughed at her jokes, and told her she looked beautiful after she'd worked eight hours doing autopsies. 

Molly felt like a whole new ( _ better) _ person with him. It was like she'd gotten a second chance at being someone,  _ with _ someone. Best of all, Sherlock didn't have a thing to do with it.   
  


**Feckless** (Sherlock, Lestrade)

At the third crime scene, Sherlock finally stops and takes a step back to think. John went to work this morning, and Sherlock misses him keenly. Everyone else here is worthless. Lestrade's familiar presence settles at his side, shoulders nearly brushing. “The thing is,” Lestrade starts slowly, “why kill this one at all?”

Sherlock's brain jolts abruptly. Why indeed? It hadn't occurred to him, not that he'll admit it.

It's an unexpected reminder why he works with this man at all. “You...are only occasionally useless, Detective Inspector,” he admits. He leaves before Lestrade can voice his shock.

 

 **Obsequious** (Moran, Moriarty)

The problem was, the Boss didn't actually want a sidekick, no matter what he told himself. Moran understood that—it was the reason he'd lasted at this job years longer than everybody else who'd tried. Working for Moriarty meant reading between the lines, anticipating, interpreting orders into quick (and usually violent) action. That suited him fine. He was content to nod in the right places, pretend to be friendly, watch his own back at all times. 

Observing Watson through his cross-hairs, he wondered just for a second what that kind of service ( _friendship)_ would be like, before he brushed it off.

 

 **Reciprocal** (Sherlock, John, Moriarty)

This is his Game, his Work, on a level he never imagined it. Moriarty's name dances on the tip of his tongue like something to be savored. Until the old woman. He _won_ , the point was his, and Moriarty took it away. This isn't the symmetry he'd hoped for (feared).

John stands by his side. Sherlock ignores his disapproving silence, dismisses it (wrongly) as common ignorance. He forgets momentarily that John has never been everyone else. John runs into danger. It's not until John steps out in a heavy parka, voice shaking, that Sherlock understands. They're far too much alike.

 

 **Enervate** (John, Sherlock, Moriarty)

John had never wanted to kill someone so badly in his life. Moriarty's smug little grin, the twisted gleam in his eyes—John could envision a thousand ways to do it, could feel his palm curling around a nonexistent gun. He didn't move. The weight of the bomb on his chest kept him motionless.

The feel of his arm around Moriarty's neck made his adrenaline fire, but the little red dots dancing on Sherlock's face drained the energy from his limbs.

Sherlock glanced down, steady and apologetic. Message received.

One.

Two.

A second before the world turned white, John surged forward.

 

 **Omnipotent** (Mycroft)

Mycroft redirects wars from his desk, contacts the leaders of every worthwhile superpower from his landline. He has the powerto be _subtle_ , make people bend to his considerable foresight. He has had most of the Western world within his sights (though not his hands—too much work, that) for his entire adult life. He has few limitations.

He cannot make the car move faster, or make the traffic disappear, or make his brother anything other than what he is.

The explosion from the pool shakes the car, the street. Mycroft drops his head into his hands and tries to breathe.

 

 

 

  
**III**   


**Climax**

 

 _...their unexpected moments of definition._

 

 

 **Circumnavigate** (Sherlock)

The world whirls by beneath his feet, and most of it grays at the edges of his vision. Occasionally he will find himself in one city for a day or two with no one on his trail. Florence, Moscow, Paris, a tiny Swedish village. When that happens, Sherlock fights to breathe, walks down quiet streets. He watches sunsets, takes boat tours, does horribly touristy things. He tells himself it's to take his mind off Moriarty's network. Rarely, he admits to himself that when (if) he gets back to John, he wants to tell him a story with parts he'll like.

 

 **Reparation** (Mycroft, John)

Of course Mycroft kept his promise to Sherlock, though it pained him. He held true by creating falsehoods. He remained loyal to his brother by arranging and attending a fake funeral, by lying to John Watson's face and permanently crippling his hopes.

He sent John cars on rainy days (hardly ever accepted), called him on Fridays (nearly always answered), paid half the rent on 221B. He hoped that, one day, when Sherlock came through the door of that flat and picked up life again, John would think back and recognize it all for the apology it was. Mycroft didn't expect forgiveness.

 

 **Quotidian** (John, Sherlock)

John watches days pass one after the other with vague interest, only half-aware of his own steps. Just filling time, mostly, waiting for...well. He works at the clinic steadily, no interruptions. Sees a fair bit of Lestrade and Mike. He and Sarah try dating again before giving it up as hopeless. They both know why.

 _Bored._ The thought chokes him daily. He hasn't written in months. 

Then one day he looks up and sees Sherlock Holmes walk into his office, and the world goes black. 

When he regains consciousness, Sherlock says, “John! You're alright?”   


John punches him.   


They're fine.  
  
**Euro** (Molly)

Molly kept a little tin in her desk at work: it had a few photos, a couple paperwork things in case something ever--

But the only reason she opened it these days was to look at the money. Just a few of the new Euros, really; silly to have them, but they were sort of   
_exotic_ , and she'd thought—well. Jim ( _Moriarty)_ had said they'd go on hols, somewhere exciting. She'd wanted to be prepared. 

Maybe she should go anyway. Might be nice to get the time away. Even by herself. She sighed and put the tin away. Back to work.

 

 **Inculcate** (John, Sherlock)

“Go on then,” Sherlock murmurs with a little nod. John glares at him halfheartedly and turns to the scene.

“There's...something off. About the bed.” At Sherlock's wry look he continues, “It's too neat. Duvet's barely wrinkled, pillows stacked. If he wasn't expecting someone, the bed wouldn't be made up—the rest of the flat's a mess. But if he _was_ expecting someone, why wear layers and turn the lights off? The killer must've made the bed.” Sherlock sighs. “Alright, what did I miss?”

“Everything,” he says with evident fondness. “But less of it than usual.”

 

 **Pecuniary** (Mycroft, Lestrade)

Mycroft could have done this by phone, but he found himself in Inspector Lestrade's office all the same, pausing at the threshold. It struck him as quite similar to their first meeting seven years ago. They were long past threatening bribes now. Mycroft was surprisingly grateful for it. When he failed to speak, Lestrade raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“Do you remember our first conversation?”

“When you offered to pay me millions for snitching on your brother?”

“Thank you for saying no,” Mycroft said honestly. “May I join you?”

“Sure. Clear yourself a seat.”

 

 **Polymer** (Harry, John, Sherlock)

John had never invited Harry home before. She understood why, really. Or she'd _thought_ she understood, until she followed John up the stairs into the flat. There were test tubes everywhere, and smoke, and somewhere in the middle of the ensuing explosion she met Sherlock.

Honestly, she met _John_. He smiled often, spoke less. He and Sherlock moved and spoke around each other with simple ease. This John was still her brother, but he was part of a different unit now. Still familiar, yet strangely unreachable. John and Sherlock made a reality of their own. When Harry left, she understood.

 

 **Recapitulate** (Sherlock, All)

They all did it sometimes, out of some deep-seated need to keep Sherlock in his place. It had turned into a kind of private joke to keep them sane and somewhat unified in the face of Sherlock's more convoluted logic. John, Lestrade, Donovan, even Mrs. Hudson had learned to perfect the tilt of the head, the confused expression, the innocent question. 

“Wait, you're saying that he...”

“It's not obvious to  _ me.” _

__“How do you know if--”

The repetition drove Sherlock batty, which was a plus, but it also kept him grounded. He never needed to know.

 

 **Hypotenuse** (Sherlock, John, Lestrade)

It's a continual source of surprise to Sherlock that John and Lestrade formed a substantial friendship while he was...away. In retrospect it's understandable: they have common experiences, similar worldviews, probably compatible tastes in some sport. It proves deeply disconcerting to realize that their association is not (and perhaps never was) solely about Sherlock.

He eventually adjusts. Lestrade laughs with John over oft-repeated jokes, and shares glances with Sherlock full of memories neither of them verbalize. And at the end of the day Sherlock and John return to Baker Street. Sherlock realizes that their familiar positions, though updated, have remained secure.

 

 **Thermodynamics** (Anthea, Mycroft)

The car battery dies in the middle of Siberia. It is very, _very_ cold, and all the worse because she's alone, under the radar, _unofficial._ She reaches for the emergency kit with one hand, dials with the other. Mycroft picks up immediately. “Help is on the way. Forty minutes. Are you alright?”

“I have a blanket, two flairs, a protein bar. Oh, it's _mint_.”

“I'm deeply sorry.” She understands. “Conserve warmth, cover any skin. Don't fall asleep.”

She's already shivering. “S-Sir...”

“Of course,” he answers. He stays on the line, voice warm, until rescue arrives.

 

 **Belie** (John, Sherlock)

“You _imbecile._ ” Sherlock's tone was cold and biting, but John could feel his friend's hands shaking even as he fought against the welling nausea of concussion.

“ 'M fine.” His voice came out a little slurred. “Just...keep me 'wake, 'k?”

“I should let you freeze to death. It would serve you right.” He felt arms lift him a little, tuck a heavy wool coat around his chest. The world got a bit warmer.

John ignored Sherlock's rantings, murmured, “I w's...worried too.”

There was a pause. “Idiot,” Sherlock said again, but it only made John smile.

 

 **Fatuous** (Mrs. Hudson)

She knows she's a simple little thing, really. Never went to university, spent most of her life working as a secretary or being married. She's always left the big, important things to other people. She's perfectly content staying here, with her own important things: she has her living, her clubs, church on Sundays. It's not exactly a _quiet_ life, not with Sherlock and John upstairs. It seems enough all the same. She knows that Sherlock (even John sometimes) thinks her simple, and she supposes she is. They don't understand that _simple_ means _content._ They'll realize it for themselves one day.

 

 **Bowdlerize** (Lestrade)

The amount of time Lestrade spends editing these reports scares even him. Over the years he's become a master of careful re-wording, finding ways to express the whole truth without some of the facts. Honest enough.

He thinks:  _Sherlock insulted Anderson, nearly got hit for his trouble. Stole the critical piece of evidence and ran off on his own. If John hadn't shot the henchman, the idiots would be dead and I'd be out of a job._

He writes: _Consultant made vital connection at scene and assisted in apprehending the suspect, who was armed and apparently inept. All evidence recovered._

 

 **Moiety** (Mike, Sherlock, John)

Mike ran into Sherlock in the Tesco of all places, in the middle of the dairy aisle. He hurried over and offered a firm handshake that Sherlock returned with something that looked like a genuine smile. “How're you getting on these days? How's John?” The questions were linked by habit now.

“Both well, thank you.” Sherlock reached past Mike's shoulder to collect a gallon of milk.“Sorry, must dash. Left something boiling.”

“I'm sure John will be overjoyed,” Mike chuckled. “Best introduction I ever made. Get on with you then,” he said affectionately, and watched him go.

 

 **Gauche** (John, Mycroft)

John is still uneasy around Mycroft most of the time. The man makes him feel like a slob nine and a half times out of ten. He sits there in his immaculate suits and parses out those odd, enigmatic expressions that John can't fully interpret. It's like he flatmated into an entirely different class. Sherlock's madness usually overshadows the fact that his wardrobe costs several thousand pounds, but Mycroft plays it up intentionally.

Still. John's seen Mycroft exhausted, seen him concerned, even genuinely pleased. The suits are always perfect, but Mycroft's human. There, at least, they're pretty much the same.

 

 **Interpolate** (Sherlock, John)

It irritated Sherlock enormously, the way John added things to the cases when he wrote them down. That blog of his was practically fraudulent, a surrender to popular fiction over scientific fact. What began as a perfectly acceptable chain of pure logical reasoning and analysis in the form of Sherlock's own deductions became flowery, distorted _drivel_. It made both of them seem vastly unintelligent, though for notably different reasons. John grinned and called it _author's license_. Sherlock called it blasphemy and tried to avoid admitting that he read them all, even after John had fixed the most glaring errors.

 

 **Deleterious** (John, Lestrade)

John watches in amazement as Lestrade moves the pin around, rattles the doorknob experimentally. “ _How_ do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Can't believe you don't. Thought Sherlock would've corrupted you by now.”

“Where did you...”

Lestrade grins, eyes full of mischief. “My best mate when I was sixteen. Terrible influence, that one. He's half the reason I became a copper. Wouldn't believe the stuff he--” The lock opens with a quiet _click._ Their captors hadn't tried very hard, honestly. Lestrade grins again and stands. “Right. They're probably out, but let's leave quietly.”

 

 **Unctuous** (Anderson, Sally)

Anderson paused at the bullpen and did a double-check for Lestrade. At his desk, absorbed in paperwork. Good. He reached up to slick his hair back into place with his palm and sauntered over to Sally's desk where she sat pecking at the keyboard. “Hey,” he said smoothly.

She looked up, brow creased, and shook her head. “Not tonight.”

“Wife's out the whole weekend,” he murmured, voice low. Persuading.

Something hardened in her gaze. “Not tonight, I said.” She got up and left. He stared after her, stunned, until his hair fell back into his eyes.

 

 **Precipitous** (Sherlock)

The mist is so thick that Sherlock can barely see a meter in front of him. The rocks shift dangerously beneath his feet and he freezes. They must be at the cliff edge. He concentrates, straining, and hears the beat of the surf far below. His fingers are going numb where they're clutched around John's gun.

A horrible sound, hauntingly mad and undoubtedly canine, erupts at his left. Through the fog he barely sees an unearthly glow, hears John shout from that direction. He doesn't dare move closer, not sure where the slope is. He raises the gun, breathes. Fires.

 

 **Nanotechnology** (John, Sherlock)

John winced as Sherlock snapped the back of the laptop open and started dismantling the rest. “Sherlock, be _careful_!” 

Sherlock looked up, clearly amused. “You wanted your data intact, didn't you?”

“Everything I have ever written is on that thing,” he warned. “I don't want you fiddling with something and making me lose it.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment. “You really have no idea how a computer   
_works_ , do you,” he said in his solved-a-case tone of revelation. “It's all stored in--”

“Just get me my files.” John ignored Sherlock's snort.

 

 **Plasma** (Sherlock, Mycroft)

The room is horribly white. Sherlock hates it, but it's preferable to looking down at the bed where Mycroft rests, pale and unconscious with a bullet hole through his shoulder. He is scarily still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of his breath. Pretensions aside, it had never occurred to him that Mycroft could be _mortal_. Red blood and yellow plasma drain into the maze of tubes. Sherlock feels unsteady, as if injured himself. He reaches out and stills his shaking fingers on Mycroft's wrist. He counts his brother's heart beats and he waits.

 

 **Vehement** (Lestrade, John, Sherlock, Mycroft)

Lestrade entered Baker Street and found himself in the middle of a war zone: Sherlock staked out at one end, Mycroft entrenched in a chair with his umbrella, John leaning against the wall by the kitchen with his arms crossed. Lestrade looked over, eyebrows raised. John sighed. “We finally had that Bond marathon.”

“So?”

Sherlock and Mycroft looked over simultaneously. “Lestrade! Hurry, prove your intelligence. Connery or Brosnan?”

“Brosnan,” he answered immediately. John and Mycroft groaned.

“There!” Sherlock cried, pointing. “I told you!”

The room erupted into shouting again. Lestrade sat down to watch.

 

 **Vortex** (Sherlock)

Sherlock understands that he possesses an inherently destructive personality. He damages himself through starvation, drugs, sleep deprivation—his body is merely transport, but the results of that make him confusing and alien to others. His profession deals with the absolute scum of humanity, the dregs that draw him in with criminal fascination. Nothing about this life is safe; it is exciting, often addicting, hard to escape.

It never used to bother him, but he worries occasionally now, because it is not his life alone. Even now, he cannot tell if John would (could) walk away, or if he'd ever choose to.

 

 **Usurp** (Sherlock, John)

John marched into the sitting room with the tiny brown pup shivering in his arms, nose sniffing at the air, tail thumping weakly against his chest. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in horror. “John-”

“Shut it. We're keeping him.”

“John,there is no possible-”

“ _Sherlock._ ” It was his no-nonsense tone, and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. “We are keeping the dog.” He set it down. “Right, budge up. Clean up the kitchen, we'll put his bed over there.”

“John, I don't think-”

“Always wanted a dog,” John grinned.

Sherlock recognized defeat. He cleaned the kitchen.

 

 **Deciduous** (Baker Street)

The seasons changed and the woodwork groaned with the creakings of time. Sunlight shifted across the wallpaper and the trees outside changed color slowly, inevitably. Inside, feet pounded on stairs, maybe moreso now than ever. Doors slammed with alarming regularity. Acrid smoke stained the ceiling and water dripped from windows left open. In the middle of the night, violin music wafted into the street below. Shouted arguments, laughing conversations, revelations, quiet evenings were all encompassed within these familiar walls.

Baker Street remained. They always came back to it, more or less the same as the very first day they'd arrived.

 

 

 

  
**IV**   


**Resolution**

 

... _their last times, and perhaps their best._

 

 

 

 **Respiration** (John, Sherlock)

They come to a scrambling stop at the next corner. Sherlock leans against a wall while John slumps over, hands on his pounding knees, trying to breathe. There's no sounds of pursuit, at least. John can remember when a run like that wouldn't so much as wind him, though his heart still pumps from the adrenaline as much as it ever did.

“I have spent...my entire _life..._ running after you,” he gasps out.

Sherlock looks over at him, understanding. “Had enough?”

The question's weighted. John knows that soon his answer will change; but today, he grins. “God, no.”

 

 **Expurgate** (John, Sherlock)

John opened the email from his potential publisher with something like foreboding. Immediately, he groaned. “You will not believe what they want me to take out before they'll turn the blog into a book.”

Sherlock glanced over. “Let's see. The drug use?”

“No, that can stay. Apparently it's edgy.”

“Oh? What then?”

“No illegal guns, no unresolved cases. No girlfriends, or one that stays. Less detailed police procedure, less waiting around, and fewer deductions.” John shook his head. “They have absolutely no idea.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, chuckling.

“Shame.” John deleted the email.

 

 **Impeach** (Lestrade)

Lestrade leaned back against his desk, arms folded, and took a look at the board. Pictures, maps, profiles, bits of string. He closed his eyes against the row of victims. Nothing made that better.

But they'd _got him._ With evidence and work and undeniable proof, and he'd be locked away for life. No jury would acquit him. The satisfaction thrummed through his bones. Dimmock caught the vibe, saluted as he passed. It was a bloody good day, as they went. Lestrade smiled: a copper's smile, all teeth and hard edges, out to the air where no one else would see.

 

 **Parameter** (Mycroft, John)

The phone gives off an alert noise in the middle of the night, just when Mycroft is considering sleep. It is the seventh time in the last two hours, which means that Sherlock is being even more difficult than usual. When the alert goes off again, Mycroft finally takes pity and calls John.

“Mycroft?”

“Good evening. You may want to guide his attention to the lack of hydrogen peroxide in the supplies of the second victim.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” John sighs. “You're a marvelous friend.”

“You're...quite welcome.” Somehow, he's never considered that.

 

 **Notarise** (Molly)

She and Jake got married on a Thursday. No fanfare or anything, but Jake got them rings and Molly wore a new blue dress. It was nice, really, to just _sign here_ and be married. They went out for drinks and held hands, and that was it. She couldn't stop smiling for days.

When John and Sherlock walked in on Monday night, Sherlock looked her over once, snorted, and swooped over to the shelves. “I hope this one isn't a serial killer.”

John just smiled and patted her hand. “Congratulations,” he murmured, which was what Sherlock meant anyway.

 

  
**Homogenous** (Sherlock, John)   


After the serial arsonist case in December and January, Sherlock decided that it was time for a vacation. He usually loathed leaving London, but the weather was bitter and he was tired. John was quiet and subdued, puttering around the flat aimlessly. They went to Italy. Sherlock showed John the back alleys and secret fountains away from the tourist trappings. They sat in the sun and bought expensive food. It wasn't until their last day in Rome that Sherlock realized he had never _asked_ John to come along, exactly. He'd simply bought two tickets. He couldn't imagine doing it differently.

 

 **Gerrymander** (Lestrade, John, Sherlock)

The crime scene is a mess, all blood and rainwater. Lestrade feels the weather in his bones these days. He steps back to let Sherlock work, ceding to brilliance with fifteen years' worth of practice. John settles next to him to watch. “How often do you make sure you're the one who gets these cases?”

Lestrade knows what he's asking: the odd ones, the gruesome murders, the really off-the-wall horrors of life that pique Sherlock's interest. It's never just been about Sherlock. There's no good answer. (It's _right._ )

Sherlock deliberately catches his eye _,_ gaze steady. Understanding _._ That's answer enough.

 

 **Irony** (Mycroft, Sherlock, John)

Mycroft had planned his life around keeping Sherlock safe. He had often hoped that one day this overprotective care would prove unnecessary. He'd never expected it to actually    
_happen._

Sherlock had expected to spend his life alone, removed and happily remote from the rest of humanity. Then he met John and spent the last half of his life thinking in twos. Unexpected.

John had planned on living a normal kind of life, really. Kids, a wife, a practice somewhere, veteran status. He would've been miserable. But he met Sherlock, and life became exciting and utterly unpredictable. Exactly what he wanted.

 

 **Facetious** (Stamford, John, Sherlock)

Sherlock and John show up to Mike's retirement send-off an hour late, but it's the thought that counts, really. Mike hands John a drink and claps Sherlock on the back. “Ah, there you are!”

John exchanges the drink for a card. “That's from both of us. Wouldn't miss it, Mike.”

Mike looks the two of them over, shakes his head. “I'll admit, when I introduced you two, I was having a bit of a laugh. Thought you would've killed each other within a day.”

“Joke's on you then,” John grins, and Mike laughs loudly in agreement.

 

 **Subjugate** (John, The Chip-and-Bin Machine)

John squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, took a breath. “Right,” he murmured. “Here we are.”

He'd waited until a quiet moment, with no impatient queue to push him. Right then. He rolled his head on his neck, and then focused.

Pick up the milk. Slide through. Wait for the annoying tone. Place milk very deliberately on weighted area. Wait for the voice. Slide card.

Bugger. Turn card over, slide again.

“Thank you for shopping with us! Don't forget to take your receipt!”

“Thank you,” John said, and took the receipt as a spoil of victory.

 

 **Oligarchy** (John, Sherlock, Mycroft)

When the fourth building explodes, Mycroft's car picks them up. Mycroft meets them there, and Sherlock joins his brother under his umbrella. They stand together talking intensely for several minutes: two unobtrusive figures, nearly hidden by rain and smoke, strikingly similar. The world pivots around them until they separate; Sherlock to the scene, Mycroft to his assistant.

One conversation _._ Ten hours later, the terrorists are eradicated by means John can only half-understand. Sherlock and Mycroft part ways with a practiced insult or two. John understands now why they argue constantly. As a united force they are something altogether more frightening.

 

 **Nihilism** (Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson)

Martha Hudson died of kidney disease at the age of seventy-eight. She left 221B to Sherlock, who had already bought the place three times over with his rent throughout the years. The rest went to John to sort out.

Her only demand: at the funeral, everyone else had to give something back to her. It was nonconformist and sentimental and utterly appropriate for her. All kinds of things ended up in the casket: movies, knitting needles, newspaper clippings, fabric.

Life seemed duller. She had willingly given him rules to break. Sherlock put nothing in the casket. She would have understood.

 

 **Suffragist** (Sally, Lestrade, Scotland Yard)

She's spent her entire career becoming _one of the guys._ It's a weakness to be a woman here, whatever equal rights and affirmative action tell you. Sally knows that the first time she gets someone coffee or wears a skirt, the housewife jokes will start and they'll never entirely stop. It's just the way things are, for now.

But this is different. When Lestrade announces his retirement, Sally brings him coffee and puts a hand on his shoulder. She arranges the party, does the shopping. The jokes happen; she ignores them. She doesn't trust anyone else to do him justice.

 

 **Tautology** (Sherlock, John)

John stands at the window and watches Mary leave. Sherlock stands just behind and watches John. This is not a new experience; John's experiments with the female sex always end this way, and yet this one seems to have hit harder, deeper, than Sherlock had anticipated.

He approaches John uncertainly until they stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out. John seems very _lonely_ next to him. Sherlock hesitates, and then reaches out to put a hand on John's steady arm.

“At least I have you, eh?” John sighs.

Sherlock has never bothered answering obvious questions. He goes to make tea.

 

 **Enfranchise** (Anthea, Mycroft)

It was Mycroft Holmes' last day. She had to take deep breaths around the thought, even though they'd been preparing this transition for months, years. How could she _ever--_

He paused, coat half-on, sensing the thought. “You'll be making your own schedule now,” he smiled.

No words seemed sufficient. “Sir, I--” she bit her lip. “ _Thank you._ ”

His expression was gentle, steady, reassuringly confident. His hand brushed her shoulder. “Chin up,” he murmured. “It's all yours, my dear.”

He left her, then: the office, the desk, the world, all safe in her trembling hands.

 

 **Incontrovertible** (John, Lestrade)

John looks up from another autograph to find Lestrade standing in front of the queue, John's book in one hand, evil grin firmly in place. “You realize that it's too late, now.”

“Too late for what?” John snags the book from him and opens the front cover to scrawl a note.

“To do anything else. You'll be the bloke who wrote about Sherlock Holmes. You've signed your docket, mate.”

“That's true.” John signs his name with a flourish. “Could be worse.” He knows that Lestrade, of all people, understands. “Sit down, keep me company.”

 

 **Filibuster** (Sherlock, John)

They'd said to keep talking, in case it kept John aware beneath the twisted metal door that was blocking the extraction. So Sherlock lay flat on the ground, pressed a hand to the steel, and talked until his voice gave out.

“John, if you can hear me, you need to stay awake. Help is on the way. It was completely idiotic to go in there alone, especially when you _knew_ he—John, we'll go on vacation or something after this. Sussex, maybe. We're due for a break. Do you like bees? I never asked you. John, stay awake. Please. John...”

 

 **Tempestuous** (Anderson)

Anderson never sleeps well anymore. The flat's horrid: the pipes go off at odd hours, and the street noise is unpredictable. He tosses and turns on the bed, twisted ( _smothered_ ) in blankets.

When he dreams, it's usually in memories: screaming rows with the wife, harsh words with Sally, the wail of sirens. He wakes suddenly, noise ringing in his ears.

He still remembers all those fights. Remembers his life being one long string of angry conversations (relationships) that ended in a blow-up just as loud as the rest. He's well shot of them. Really.

Still. The silence is worse, somehow.

 

 **Winnow** (Lestrade, Mycroft)

Lestrade sat heavily on the last crate. Packing up was real exertion these days, but there was something almost freeing in the _getting rid of things_ , even if...  
The front door creaked open on Mycroft's knock. He leaned more heavily on his umbrella these days. What remained of his hair was silver, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Familiar. Mycroft propped his umbrella against a crate, surprisingly hesitant. “I thought...well. I thought that perhaps you might like a hand?”

Well then. Funny, the things that kept, at the end. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The boxes seemed lighter after that.

 

 **Hemoglobin** (John, Harry)

The don't talk very much any more, but that's fine, really. The cancer and the chemo don't change that. John calls her about every other month, and Harry humors his check-ins. In return she'll send him an an excerpt from some particularly bad review of his book. They'll never be close again, but they're fairly peaceful. That seems plenty, all considered.

The last time they speak, John cuts his finger on a tin and stares at the red blood oozing while Harry rattles on about her doctors. Years later, that's all John will be able to remember from the conversation.

 

 **Loquacious** (Sherlock, John)

“It was originally tattoos, of course.” Sherlock swayed dangerously. John propped him against the wall until he unlocked the door and got them both inside.

“Later after people became more civ...civil...it was just a very good memory. Like mine. Only not as good, so they made mistakes all the time. The police. The police always make mistakes. Do we have any more wine?”

“No,” John told him firmly, and dropped him onto the couch.

“Wasn't until 1870 that they started using fingerprints. Paris...” Sherlock trailed off, staring at the ceiling. John went to get him water.

 

 **Wrought** (Mycroft, Sherlock)

Mycroft is fading. He can sense it in his core. The monitors and regulators have finally been turned off. He feels something like peace.

Sherlock appears at the last possible moment. Mycroft opens his eyes and finds his brother sitting there staring back. Sherlock is older now: face lined, hair turning silver. Still familiar. Less terrifying. There is a softness to his gaze that makes Mycroft's throat tight.

Here is the work of his life, alive and breathing and well-kept, steady at his bedside. “Sherlock...”

“Rest, Mycroft,” Sherlock murmurs. Mycroft smiles and finally succumbs to the darkness, content.

 

 **Supercilious** (Lestrade, Sherlock)

Lestrade still remembers the first time he ever met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been high at the time, but he's still been brilliant, sharp and cold and _arrogant_ in a way that went far past the normal uni trust fund pride that Lestrade was used to. That expression was the first thing he associated with Sherlock.

But not the only thing. Lestrade never expected to find himself on a porch chair in Sussex, listening to Sherlock chatter on about pollen while they sip lemonade with old hands. Sherlock's expression hasn't changed, but their relationship has. Lestrade can see better now.

 

 **Yeoman** (John)

The weed came up with a yank. John leaned back, wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked around the garden with satisfaction. Sherlock had let the green plot in back of the cottage go to seed entirely, content to focus on his bees. John's careful tending this summer was paying off. The effort hurt his back, but it soothed his soul. Sherlock was right ( _obvious)_ , and John was grateful. He stood and tried to wipe the soil from his hands. They'd need lunch soon. After two decades of friendship, John was happily resigned to doing all the work himself.

 

 **Ziggurat** (Sherlock)

Sherlock settles on the porch that evening, joints aching. His arthritic fingers curl in the wool blanket. It's too cold to be out, but he remains, just to see the darkening Sussex sky and hear the droning of his bees settling in their hives for the night. Their mounded homes stand out against the far horizon like mysterious foreign temples.

He wonders if John believed in God. All the times they sat here side by side, they never broached the subject. John's chair is empty now. Here in the fading light of his life, Sherlock wishes that he had asked.

 

 

FIN


End file.
